


Life's A Kick In This Town

by ignited



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-30
Updated: 2007-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:12:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignited/pseuds/ignited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, future!fic. <i> Jensen’s never learned how to cook, didn’t have time, years rolling by and they never have time, except when they do—and that time’s spent working, in offices, on set, passing paperwork, barest touch of fingertips.</i> Jared and Jensen are film producers (never actors) and have been best friends for more than sixteen years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life's A Kick In This Town

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://kashmir1.livejournal.com/profile)[**kashmir1**](http://kashmir1.livejournal.com/) for the valuable input and [](http://regala-electra.livejournal.com/profile)[**regala_electra**](http://regala-electra.livejournal.com/) for the beta! Title from The Go-Go’s “This Town.”

**Subject:** |  |  Re: dinner @ 8?   
---|---|---  
**From:** |  |  jra@paltd.com  
**Date:** |  |  7/29/2021 4:17 PM  
**To:** |  |  jtp@paltd.com  
  
_The only requirement you needed for this job was to have a perfectly round open mouth._

 

•

 

Sixteen years to the day, they're out for drinks like they do every Thursday night; Jensen's digging into the pocket of his slacks, starts to pull out his wallet when Jared comes by, slaps him on the ass.

"How much?" Jared asks, shrugs and rolls his shoulders, tries to adjust an ill-fitting suit jacket. Place is ritzy as fuck and Jensen knows Jared hates it, but it's after seven and there's one of those jacket rules.

Jensen starts to thumb through the cash in his wallet, pushes his glasses back up on his nose. "Twenty three."

"Fuck. You kidding me?"

"No."

"All right. Put that away, man, I'm paying."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Jared nods, slips a hand out of his pocket to fix Jensen's jacket collar. Jensen bats his hand away and puts his wallet back in his pocket. "C'mon. I'm starving. Let's get some burgers."

Jared pays for the drinks and slings an arm around Jensen's shoulders, fogs up the edge of his glasses, breath smells like beer and peanuts, scruff burns against Jensen's cheek.

They get cheeseburgers and end up crashing at Jensen's place, Jared flipping through infomercials and kicking at Jensen's feet in bed; Jensen typing up a few e-mails on his laptop. He ends up turning the TV off when Jared starts snoring.

 

•

 

Sixteen years finds them in the office like this: Jensen's office, at the end of the hall on the right, wall of glass and old posters, small little bookcases, picture frames. Black furniture, oak accents. Bulletin board with notes, bright pink, green, orange notecards, marker in script and illegible chicken scratch. Lists of phone numbers, and addresses (festivals, theaters), and him, leaning forward, bad posture and black framed glasses always on the tip of his nose.

He's forty three, girlfriends here and there, no kids. Producer by trade, directed three or four features, scripts for television series (eight), film (more than seven), that fucking play he and Jared never talk about, fucking money pit.

Jared's at the other end, sloping glass windows, in the 'dungeons'—he's editing, music blaring off his laptop, always sprawled in his chair, rolls and spins and squeaks because he's an indignant fuck ( _"Dude, you're so fucked up, 'indignant?' You're so **old**." "Shut the fuck up. I'm not old."_ )

He takes long strides down the length of the office, Jensen notices, past other cubicles and doors—and he always smiles, waves at the others working there—and raps a knuckle against the glass doors of Jensen's office. Jensen's sitting on the edge of his desk, talking on his phone, fumbling with the knot of his tie.

Jensen holds up a finger; Jared _gives_ him the finger and enters anyway, scratches his beard and shoves his hands into his pockets. He waits.

Chris Kane is in town, wants to have dinner. Jared rolls his eyes and moves towards Jensen's desk, leans right over his shoulder and says as long as they don't go to the same place as last; food was too dry, tasted like shit. He grabs Jensen's phone—iPhone, whatever generation now—and leans back, fingers absentmindedly tugging on Jensen's tie.

Jensen pushes his glasses up on his nose and says he'll call Chris later when Jared pulls up a map on the phone, points out one or two places they could check out.

And then, broad shoulders, thick muscled frame, he's standing in front of Jensen, nudging his legs open with a knee and tells him to come by the office and look at the treatment he's given the second reel, the action sequence, all blues and greens.

Jared still wears his hair long, no grey yet, laugh lines near his mouth, little crow's feet. Built solid, hasn't been scrawny for a long time, little almost-belly that he covers up with hoodies, loose fitting shirts, self-conscious one minute, strutting the next.

Jensen's in the office with glass for a reason, and it's not the fucking view, he knows, clears his throat and jerks off in his private bathroom after Jared leaves, bumps his jean clad hip on the glass on his way out.

 

•

 

## PA/INTERNS needed ASAP

* * *

  
Reply to: see below  
Date: 2005-08-25, 12:14PM PDT  
  
  
Studio seeking production assistants for part time work. Ability to handle multiple projects efficiently in a fast-paced environment is a must. Must also have excellent organizational, written, and oral communication skills, and enjoy being part of a creative team.  
  
If interested, please contact our production office on Monday morning.

|  | 

They met on set, as it happens, rare thing nowadays, but back then it's P.A. work, back then Jensen can barely get a word in edgewise, the way Jared's talking over lunch, moves his hands when he does, shoves half a freaking hot dog into his mouth and it's _over_ after that.  
  
 _Two weeks_ , more like, finds them fucking in Jared's shithole of an apartment, 'cause unless Jared can fold all twenty feet of himself into Jensen's two-door car and Jensen can literally lose his sense of smell to not gag at the back alley of the bar they'd been in, they're fucking in his crappy apartment, thanks.  
  
Jared's too eager, all hands, encompassing, Jensen trying to take it slow but he's hot, alcohol burning, soft little thrill that thrums in his chest. The sex is messy and exploratory, little bit painful but they manage to dig out a bottle of lube from Jared's bottom drawer, him brandishing the bottle like a prize is what has Jensen cackling, slings an arm around his neck and muffles his laugh in Jared's hair.  
  
They don't have any time to fuck on set because it's sixteen hour days, two different departments they're split between. When the shoot winds down, they get to spend more time together on set and off, start kicking a script back and forth that Jensen brings up over fries and burgers that Saturday.  
  
Jared is hopeless at talking business when there's food in front of him. He nearly swipes Jensen's milkshake, slurps his own and scrunches his face when Jensen smacks his hand away, wraps an arm around his plate and drink protectively.  
  
They're bullshitting for hours and in three months, Jared moves into Jensen's two bedroom apartment, start fielding calls of interest over the script, over a production deal because Jensen knows somebody who knows somebody.  
  
That's the way it works, and it starts Jensen's quest to learn how to cook, because if they start getting pulled in all directions over work, the least he could do is one or two recipes lest he suffer Jared reheating takeout all the fucking time they have a night to spare.   
  
---|---|---  
  
 

•

 

Fourteen years into this—a week after Jared turns thirty seven—they move into the new office.

There's still boxes of office supplies, rolled up posters in the hallway. Jensen gets the office with the front glass wall, says it's the only way he'd be able to get any work done—can't _do_ anything, everyone'll _see_ , and Jared catches Jensen staring at him when he's chatting with his co-workers.

Jared is settling his divorce right now–it's amicable, no kids, just his dogs that he can keep. Sandy comes by after a few weeks and brings a potted cactus, handing it over to Jensen because Jared's locked himself in the editing suite for a few hours.

He's worked on a shitload of things—visual effects, editing, script doctoring, directing commercials, some features, but he's at home in the editing suite, just editing a movie right now for a client. The pacing is off and he writes down in his chicken scratch a note to remind himself to talk with the director.

He grabs a handful of gummi bears out of the bag in his desk drawer and shoves them into his mouth as he opens the door to his office with a bang, looking over at the reception area—Jensen, at the filing cabinet, sorting through a drawer and giving notes to the receptionist.

"In my office, _now_." Jared's thumbs wrap around his belt loops; he tosses a smile in the receptionist's direction, nods at Jensen. "I, uh, I need you to look over something."

Jensen does a double take, slight blush on his cheeks that matches the dark burgundy of his dress shirt. "What, _now_?"

"Yes, 'now.' I need your approval before I show it to the _client_."

He bites back, _you dumbass_ , because even if they've known each other for years, one thing he knows Jensen won't like is being talked to like that in the office.

Not that there aren't ways around it, like the way Jared wraps his arms around Jensen's waist when they're in _Jared's_ office, lets him look blurrily over the rims of his glasses at the computer monitor. He scrubs a hand through Jensen's short hair, Jensen whacking his hand away, eyes still on the screen.

"You're subtle," is what Jensen says, grunts when Jared places a hand on his belly, presses, gently. Jensen's entering his forties and it's starting to show—hair at his temples going grey, years of too much eating out and too many hours in an office showing around his middle, a softness that blurs the edges of his jaw, his muscles.

Jared sighs, eyes closing, says, "Sandy's getting the house. Can I come crash with you?"

"You do this every time you settle a business transaction?" Jensen rolls his shoulder muscle and pushes away, looking over at Jared. "She's getting the _house_?"

Jared shrugs. "I didn't want it anymore. Told her you said yes."

"You—you told her I agreed?"

"Dude, am I speaking in tongues here? Can I come crash with you or not?"

"You're a grown man, Jared," Jensen says, inches away from Jared's face, and breathes out a little, makes the longish hair near Jared's neck puff away with the action. Jared closes his eyes briefly, bites his lip when Jensen follows with, "Do whatever you want. Just get the last two reels color corrected and done so we can ship this film out by Friday."

He gets it done by Wednesday, just to fuck with him. Metaphorically and literally.

 

•

 

**Subject:** |  |  Re: dinner @ 8?   
---|---|---  
**From:** |  |  jtp@paltd.com  
**Date:** |  |  7/29/2021 4:22 PM  
**To:** |  |  jra@paltd.com  
  
_no, but i could do a triangle shape for you cause you would need it._

_you're supposed to be working, ackles! not sending me dirty e-mails._   


 

•

 

The Thursday dinners start the third time Jensen fucks up another recipe, throws in the towel—an actual towel, just as foreign in his hands as the cutlery and kitchen utensils he's bought and has on display, like the kitchen he's never home to use, career's _hot_ now, always working—and tells Jared they're going out for dinner.

Jared pats Jensen's shoulder with his rolled up copy of _Variety_ and tells him he's paying.

They argue all the way there over the merits of this movie versus that movie, and it's nothing different, always the same, the banter that'll come up, the comfort in each other's presence. Jared will sling an arm around Jensen's shoulder in the booth, or touch the back of Jensen's chair when they're with others, joke, lets his knee bob up and down, this wired, jazzed feeling he gets.

When they're talking business or catching up with old friends—Welling, Rosenbaum, Murray—they always go to different restaurants, swanky places, get drinks in tiny glasses that disappear in Jared's hands like nothing.

Places like hotel lounges, like strip joints, the same kind of furniture, the same kind of lights that cast shadows on Jensen, his neck, collarbone. The crowds always change, the hotspots always change, _Jensen_ changes.

They get older and the questions shift from "so, you're an actor" to "so, you're in the business," you're a writer, you're a producer, you're _whatever_ —Jared'll clap Jensen on the shoulder on Jensen's 40th birthday, and say he'll always be a pretty boy to him, and likewise, Jensen nodding and offering his date another glass of champagne.

Her name's Joanna and she's an actress, and she slides her leg near Jensen's, laughs when he tells her a joke, right near her ear.

Jared slings an arm around the chair next to him, not Jensen—sitting a few seats down, away—and he looks over at Sandy, smiles when she whacks his shoulder, laughing too hard, giggles and snorts at a joke Mike tells her, champagne almost goes up her nose, wets her hand, the one with the wedding ring.

Jared doesn't take his eyes off Jensen all night after that.

 

•

 

_Review_ : Love In Texas _(July 16, 2012)_  
 _continued from page 26_  
...the play is weighed down by horrific dialogue, outlandish, garish costumes—why the budget wasn't put towards actual sets or a better cast is beyond me; why a play with possible award winning material is squandered on these terrible actors is also unknown.  
    The most recognizable name on the crew list is Jensen Ackles, an up and coming producer with a string of modestly successful films and TV scripts under his belt. He was unavailable for comment for this article. Rumor has it that he is soon leaving his post at Warner Bros. to begin a production company with his production partner, screenwriter Jared Padalecki... 

|  | 

The play goes down in flames when the reviews hit the wires—too much money spent, not even on _sets_ : freaking minimalist shit, and that's actors for you. They want their awards and take up a little summer play to get some _credibility_. It's not even _theirs_ , his or Jensen's, this play. They put up money up front, and it'll take more than a whole case of cheap beer at this mourning soirée for Jared to get the bad taste out of his mouth.  
  
"I hate this," Jared says, little too loud, mouth feels loose, funky, bad taste of _beer_. Jensen taps his shoulder and points at the tray of appetizers at the table Jared's standing by. He feels awkward, out of place, not a question of height (head and shoulders above) or dress (blazer, logo t-shirt Jensen picked, jeans, boots), but the fact that Jensen's just _not_.  
  
That's the thing right there, the way Jensen turns on the charm, all smiles, polite, hell, manages to turn that streak of _shyness_ into an endearing trait that'll get him deals, that gets _them_ deals. He's not a shark, just your everyday guy, dazzle you with a couple of lines and you're signing over thousands. He fits in.  
  
Jared doesn't. He'd feel more comfortable with a couple of friends shooting the shit and having a couple of beers or drinks, not this kind of fake bullshit.  
  
"We'll stay until one," Jensen responds, rubs the back of his neck. He's grown his hair out over the spring and it's summer now, gives him highlights in his sandy brown hair, hair pushed back near his temples. "You're cranky. Eat something."  
  
"Yes, mother." Jared sticks out his tongue and smacks his lips; the beer is _beyond_ terrible. "I don't know how you put up with these people."  
  
"Need to do some meet and greets so this whole thing won't be a total loss," Jensen says, takes a sip of his beer bottle. He nearly coughs, putting the bottle on the table next to him. Straightens his suit lapels. "Besides, I think we got us a deal for that script you're working on. The one with the aliens?"  
  
"Really?" Jared's interest is piqued; might have something to do with finding some really good roasted weenies. So the night—and food—isn't a total loss. "That's awesome. You want?"  
  
"No." Jensen taps and rubs his belly. "Been eating too much crap lately. Gotta hit the gym this weekend."  
  
Jared rolls his eyes and grabs Jensen by the arm and three minutes later they're fucking in the parking lot downstairs, Jared's breath hot against Jensen's neck, his fingers twining in Jensen's hair. He blows his load, come getting on Jensen's slacks and Jensen announces he's not bringing it in to dry clean.  
  
---|---|---  
  
 

•

 

Jensen's never learned how to cook, didn't have _time_ , years rolling by and they never have time, except when they _do_ — and that time's spent working, in offices, on set, passing paperwork, barest touch of fingertips.

They argue, and they fight over business, because it's gonna happen—Jared's in Bulgaria complaining about the weather on the phone; his voice sounds tinny over the connection.

Static crackles, pops, a _'you dick!'_ and so on, dissolves into white noise when Jensen waits, nods a greeting at a co-worker passing by his desk. He's working for a studio now, some action movie, long hours, that lull between shoots where he's throwing himself into business. He's still young, only thirty five—can do whatever work he get his hands on, worry about working on his tan and settling down later.

Jared's voice goes out; Jensen moves to hang up but the voice comes on again, a moment of clarity, low, seductive.

"So, what are you wearing?"

"…Clothes, asshat, get back to work."

"You're boring me, Ackles. Lick any envelopes today? Wish you were sucking my cock instead?"

"Not _now_."

"I'm in fucking _Bulgaria_ , my dick's gonna fall off from the cold or jerking off, man. Gimme a break."

Jared tells him he'll be back in two weeks. Jensen finishes his stint, Jared blowing him off a lunch date to say he's on a commercial shoot, chatting up a girl in the hair and makeup department named Sandy.

They get married by the end of the year.

 

•

 

 

**Subject:** |  |  Re: dinner @ 8?   
---|---|---  
**From:** |  |  jra@paltd.com  
**Date:** |  |  7/29/2021 4:29 PM  
**To:** |  |  jtp@paltd.com  
  
  


This is payback for you putting your naked, hairy ass up as my wallpaper AND for leaving me alone with Chad for two hours in yesterday's meeting.

  


P.S. Get a tan.  


 

•

 

Jared decides Jensen's too immersed in his work—"I have to be, _you're_ the one looking at porn sites in your office when you're waiting for the effects to render."—and says they're going to spend the weekend at a house down by the beach, no cell phones, no e-mails, _nothing_.

He says this, firm, and Jensen bursts out laughing, something about a pot calling the kettle black, because within twenty minutes of driving down, Jared's playing with his PSP in the passenger seat. Greatest Hits games, old console, so what if he's thirty-nine and playing video games.

And they're not at the house _yet_ , and the game's thrown away by the time they get inside, Jensen pulling down Jared's jeans and fists him hard and slow, Jared nothing but response. Angles himself, lets Jensen wrap his fingers around his shoulders, push the white dress shirt off, hardcore tongue fucking.

Jared'll bite the edge of Jensen's jaw, tear away, this moan that'll go through him, the way Jensen presses right _here_ , thumbs, fingertips, the way he kisses right _there_ and he _knows_ this, knows how to make Jared go weak, over a decade, and it's always getting _better_.

He'll ache, and he'll get this thrill, seeing Jensen, glasses off, swallowing Jared's cock. Jensen licks along the underside, goes deeper, noses Jared's belly—and Jared doesn't have to say 'do this', because it's known, like the back of his hand or whatever, he can't really come up with metaphors when Jensen's cupping his balls, this little twist that'll leave Jared gasping.

They miss the bed, doesn't fucking matter—they're in the master bedroom a few minutes after Jared comes. Jensen arches up beneath Jared, moaning all rough, ragged, _filthy_ , these little slips of words that are too rare, the way he stores these things 'til they build up, burst.

Jared jacks him off, shakes his head to get the hair out of his eyes, saying, low, "Let it out, baby, come on. Come on."

A shudder goes through Jensen, coming right after Jared grunts the sentence out; they're just this mess on the floor afterwards. Jared's knee pops when he slings his leg over Jensen's own legs, rolls on his side and trails his fingers down the length of Jensen's arm, squeezing.

Jensen sighs, all sated, leans back on his elbows and tucks his chin against his neck, gets this little double chin that Jared sees out the corner of his eye, grins against Jensen's chest.

"Told you this was a good idea," Jared says, doesn't care if it's smug, starts to wrap a hand around Jensen's waist.

Jensen's smile starts off slow, spreads wide, these crinkles at the corner of his eyes that Jared notices, every single one, the slight lines on his face, and he goes and kisses him, right there, suck on his bottom lip.

 

•

 

Jared comes out of the shower and towel dries his hair, fresh faced and shaved, Jensen feeling this little twinge of he doesn't know _what_ —been a while since Jared's gone without scruff, makes him look boyish despite the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

Doesn't help that he brushes his bangs forward and slouches in the lounge chair next to Jensen, angles his head when he leans, kisses him.

Jensen rubs at his chin and stretches, wearing a t-shirt and shorts, bare flesh of his legs cool in the oncoming evening breeze. The house is on a cliff, overlooks the ocean, scenic and all that, sun setting. He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. Hears Jared, tearing into a bag of potato chips, a question mumbled while chewing.

Slips the glasses back on, murmuring, "What?"

"I said, what are we having for dinner?"

He raises an eyebrow, stares at the way Jared's licking his lips, stuffing the potato chips into his mouth a little sloppily.

"I don't think you need dinner," Jensen points out, leans forward and snatches the bag away with a darting hand. Jared flops back on his chair, wiping the crumbs off his t-shirt.

"Yeah, whatever," Jared responds, turns on his side to poke at Jensen's side, the extra flesh there. "Not just _me_."

"Shut up." Jensen smacks his hand away, and Jared's already laughing, this loud, braying laughter that hasn't changed over all the years, and all the shit that's gone down, deals, business, _whatever_. "You love it."

He'll poke him, and it's not a question of flaws, _you're getting old_ , because with Jared, the way he'll _look_ at him—Jensen doesn't know when it arrived, settled in for both, this feeling that makes his gut clench sometimes, when he looks back. But he's okay with it.

"I do," Jared says, smiles all wide, eyes half-lidded, like he's pulling out the Texas charm. Yeah, the same kind of charm that pops up when he's drunk off his ass and hanging off Jensen's arm after a round of drinks to drown their sorrows over not getting business deals.

"In case you're wondering, I can order something. They'll drive down," Jensen says, sighs and lets Jared lean all over him, again, rub his still wet hair against Jensen's shoulder. Grunts out, "Your hair's still _wet_ , man, get off."

"Ah, so you couldn't go and pull a fast one and finally figure out how to cook after all these years?" Jared says, clears his throat. "Last weekend getaway we're gonna get for a while, dude."

"I'm not a freaking Houdini," Jensen says, looks down at Jared, adding, "Thought I'd brush up on fucking you instead."

Jared's grinning when he turns his head to look up, slight glint of grey strands now visible in his hair, he says, "You're so _cheesy_ , man."

Jensen cuts off Jared laughing at his own joke with a kiss.

He'll give him a bonus later for thinking up this vacation idea. Whether said bonus is monetary or not, well, they've always got time to figure that out.

  
_end_   



End file.
